‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘All those women Shannon had naked pictures of? They’re helping him. Whenever he needs a place to stay or a ride, he …’ I think about it. ‘In fact, I bet he took the grey hatchback. He probably told the Asian girl to report it stolen, but not until he had a head start. That would be the smart play.’

‘Well, he won’t stay off the radar long,’ Thistle says. ‘His face is all over the news now. Someone will spot him soon.’

She pats the seat next to her. I sit down.

‘Sorry I hit you with the door,’ she says. ‘There was a lot of blood.’

Most of it probably belonged to the guy I bit. ‘I’m fine,’ I say again.

‘You’ve earned a break. And we’ve exhausted all our leads. Why don’t you let me take you home?’

‘We’re not done,’ I say. ‘We still don’t know who the blonde woman is, or Fred. And we’re not even a hundred per cent on Luxford’s motive.’

‘I know what it’s like to not want to stop,’ Thistle says. ‘After I got shot—’

Her phone rings. She sighs, and answers. ‘Thistle.’

She listens for a while, and then says, ‘Got it, thanks,’ and ends the call.

‘We have a DNA match on the blonde hair from Biggs’s car,’ Thistle says. ‘It belongs to Armana Black. Houston resident, with a past conviction for prostitution. Units out looking for her now.’

A name at last. I heave myself to my feet. ‘Let’s go.’

‘I’m taking you home,’ Thistle says. ‘You need rest.’

‘But—’

‘You can talk to her when we bring her in. Okay?’

I nod. ‘Okay.’

I do have things to do at home. But rest isn’t one of them.

As we walk out, I glance through each door we pass. Most of the patients are old, but there’s nothing visibly wrong with them. Tubes go to their arms, but the more powerful drug is the TV flashing on the wall. The news babbles about another school shooting, this time in Missouri. The patients stare at the TV, anxious but motionless, somehow wound up and pacified at the same time.

As I pass one of the rooms, I see a young man. Most of his face is bandaged. Only one eye, his nose and part of his mouth are visible.

But I recognise him. He’s one of the three guys who attacked me. The one who found a severed hand in my pocket, right before I bit his cheek off.

His eye focuses on me, and widens. He screams. The movement pops his stitches, turning the bandages pink.

Thistle turns to look, alarmed. ‘Jesus,’ she says. ‘What’s going on in there?’

‘No idea.’ I hustle her along the corridor. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

She slows down. ‘Maybe that guy needs help?’